


Of Hunting Knives and Amateur Kidnappers

by giidas



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Eames (Inception), Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, M/M, fake husbands, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giidas/pseuds/giidas
Summary: Eames sends an SOS to Arthur, who drops everything to fly to his rescue and finds Eames in a hospital.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 233





	Of Hunting Knives and Amateur Kidnappers

It’s not anxiety, Arthur tells himself as he digs his fingers into the meat of his thigh. 

It isn’t anxiety making his leg jump, it is  _ not  _ anxiety that makes him want to get out of his seat and go threaten the pilot to  _ fly faster. _ It’s not worry, either. He doesn’t worry, not about Eames, not about anyone. He’s learned his lesson with Cobb.

Worrying about someone is what gets you  _ killed. _

And he is, first and foremost, a survivor.

And so is Eames.

So what if the encrypted message Arthur got from him 11 hours ago — 11 hours 23 minutes and, Arthur checks his watch, 37 seconds ago — spelled out a very obvious  _ someone is holding me captive and making me write this, I might possibly be in too deep, a little help might be appreciated, ta.  _ Not in so many words, of course, but Arthur heard Eames’ subliminal message loud and clear.

Eames is a survivor and that message probably went to multiple people, Arthur tells himself. His leg is still bouncing.

It wasn’t a job gone wrong, Arthur knows that much. Eames hasn’t taken one in months, lying low and supposedly enjoying the Inception payout, same as Arthur. 

The motors change pitch slightly,  _ finally, _ and Arthur knows they’re starting descent. He takes a deep breath and ignores the concerned looks his seatmate is throwing him.

He clears customs with barely a second look from the bored agent and then follows the arrows directing him to the rental company parking lot.

He reminds himself that this is not a dream and he can’t just make a gun or a knife appear. He gives himself a second, let’s his forehead hit the steering wheel of the sensible small sedan. It can’t be a trap because no one knows how he— it’s not a trap and it has nothing to do with Dreamshare. Guns shouldn’t really be necessary., especially not in Europe.

He sighs.

Better safe than sorry.

The mall his GPS directs him to is lit up and full of people. He finds a map of the thing, finds the name of the hobby store that sells hunting knives, at least according to his online search.

His Spanish is rusty and his Portuguese nonexistent, so he sticks to English, plays up his American accent. He leaves the store with three neatly wrapped hunting knives and two smaller ones that he can hide in his boots. He’s absolutely positive he’s caught on at least 17 different cameras and that the seller would be able to describe him down to the color of his eyes, if he was asked.

He curses knowing Eames, curses ever getting attached.

He gets back into the sedan, hides the three knives and as planned, hides the two in his boots. He’ll regret the duct tape later, he’s sure.

He sees the blinking lights before he takes the last turn.  _ Shit, shit, shit. _ He slows down, hides his phone, rummages unseeingly through his bag and slides a ring on his finger.

A police officer is approaching his car before he fully stops.

“My husband, he—” Arthur says, letting his voice waver and his expression show fear. He can’t overshare, can’t run his mouth and risk being caught in a lie.

“Husband?” The officer asks, turning slightly and looking at the cordoned off area, shouting something at a colleague. After a shout back, he turns around. “He’s in hospital. Pedro Hispano, yes?” He points to the GPS Arthur hastily turned on. Arthur types in Pedro Hispano and chooses the hospital, looking back at the officer, waiting for confirmation that the address it is sending him to is correct. After his nod, Arthur thanks him and turns the car around. 

The officer didn’t seem surprised at the husband con and Arthur has no idea what it says about him, about Eames, that somehow that is the one they both relied on in this situation. The ring on his finger is a foreign weight and he feels it every time he tightens his hand on the steering wheel.

It takes him ten minutes and two drives around the hospital before he finds an empty parking spot. He gets rid of one of the knives duct taped to his leg, hisses at the sensation of hair being ripped out and says goodbye to the topmost layer of his skin, which is now firmly attached to the duct tape. 

The person he asks for directions points him towards the Emergency department where he’s met with less chaos than he expects. He follows the arrows on the ground to a nurse sitting behind a plexiglass. She’s typing something on a computer.

She looks up at him, starts speaking Portuguese.

“I apologise, I don’t speak Portuguese, but my husband was brought in earlier, by the police?” he tells her, once again playing up the fear in his voice, on his face. He bites his lip, spins the ring around his finger to get her to look at it. She does.

She looks sympathetic when she looks back up again. “Go to third floor.” She points to a set of elevator doors down a corridor.

Third floor is so quiet it makes the hairs on his arm stand up. There’s no nurse at the nurse’s station and he wonders if he should just go down the long corridor and peek into every room when one exits a room to his left.

“My husband was sent here from the ER, they sent me up?” Arthur adjusts the strap over his shoulder, the ring catching the light.

She doesn’t question him, shows him to a room while seemingly scolding him for something. Possibly for being here outside of visiting hours. She opens the door without knocking.

There are bandages on Eames’ head and on his arm. One of his legs is propped up, knee covered by a brace.

Arthur takes a moment to steady himself, to finally get his heart to calm down from the frantic beat it’s been drumming against his ribcage since the police officer sent him here.

Eames makes a noise and Arthur suddenly wants to be anywhere but here, anywhere but looking at Eames, beaten up, vulnerable—

“ _Love,_ ” Eames says, voice raspy, and tries to extend his bandaged hand. He’s pushed out of the way by the nurse, who goes to tut at Eames and then arranges his arm down again while scolding him in rapid-fire Portuguese. Arthur makes his way to the other side of the hospital bed. His chest feels tight and he can’t swallow. His hand is shaking when he slides the strap of his bag from his shoulder and lets it fall to the ground. He makes a fist, can feel Eames’ eyes on him.

The nurse says something and then the door closes behind her.

Arthur looks up, catches the gold of a ring on Eames’ finger. His knuckles are scraped. He has a black eye, split lip. Arthur is clenching his hand in a fist again, digging his nails into the meat of his palm.

“It looks worse than it is,” Eames says and Arthur makes a choked-off noise. “Really, Arthur. The knee is just sprained, there are some cuts on my arm and one above my eye, barely any stitches at all.”

He sounds cheerful, and Arthur might have bought it, but he knows him too well and Eames isn’t at 100% right now, so his tells are more pronounced. Arthur finally manages to swallow, clears his throat.

“How long,” he asks, voice cold, emotionless.

“Arthur—”

“How long, Eames.”

“Day and a half. Neighbours got back from vacation early, noticed something was off, called the cops.”

Arthur presses fingers into his eyes. They’ve had him a day before they got him to send the message. He should have known, he should have been here faster, he—

“They were amateurs,” Eames says into the silence of the room, “they mistook me for some rich businessman, they had no idea about Dreamshare.”

Arthur sits down, hitting the chair with more force than he intends. His back screams in protest. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at his still trembling fingers.

The ring is mocking him, he thinks.

“I bought hunting knives.”

“You— what?” Eames sounds beyond baffled and Arthur hears him shift in the bed, sees a hand trying to reach out, sees Eames change his mind and put the hand back down.

“I bought hunting knives in a hobby store at a mall,” Arthur repeats, “I don’t have a safe house here, and I had no idea what— so I bought hunting knives.”

“You—” Eames makes a frustrated noise, “—look at me, Arthur.” Arthur closes his eyes for the briefest moment and then looks up. 

“I have a safe house in Porto,” is what Eames says next, “but you didn’t know that,” Eames concludes, as if he only just now realized.

There’s a second of silence.

“You didn’t know that,” Eames repeats, tone changing slightly. His eyes are searching Arthur’s face and then drop to his clothes, then his hands where they stop, caught on the ring. Everything seems to stop.

“You bought hunting knives,” Eames says and when Arthur nods, he laughs. His lip splits open again, blood welling up on the fresh cut, but Eames doesn’t seem to mind.

He licks the blood away and says, “James.”

At Arthur’s questioning look, he elaborates.

“Told them my name was James Eames and that my husband will probably come looking for me soon.” Something in his expression shifts, Arthur notices, softens just so. “And here you are.”

It clicks, then, like a puzzle piece that was missing.

And here he is.

On one of his cleaner passports, with a knife taped to his ankle and with a ring on his finger. Arthur isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. So much for being three steps ahead, so much for being careful, for not showing your hand.

“You could’ve just said,” Eames breaks him out of his thoughts.

“No, I couldn’t have  _ just said, _ Eames, jesus christ,” Arthur bites out, looking away from Eames.

“Oh, well, if you  _ couldn't have, _ ” is the mocking reply thrown his way.

Arthur looks at him then. He’s too tired to keep his emotions in check and even if he wasn’t, he’s already revealed himself.  _ His actions  _ have exposed him, and have made his feelings very clear, it seems.

“You—” he points at Eames and then isn’t quite sure how to continue his sentence, how to explain the amalgam of emotions that are pushing at his ribcage.

But Eames says  _ I know  _ and his eyes look so understanding it cracks something inside Arthur in two. He presses his lips together, trying to keep the fear of rejection at bay. 

“I never thought you felt the same,” he says, eyes meeting Eames’ and then skittering away, looking at the bandage on his arm.

“Yes, well,” Eames says and then clears his throat, “worked pretty hard on keeping those to myself, didn’t I.”

Arthur snorts. “You called me  _ darling. _ ”

“Slip of the tongue.”

“You flirted constantly.”

“Flirt with everyone, don’t I.”

“You—” and he can’t finish the sentence because.

Oh, Arthur thinks.

_ Oh. _

He looks at Eames and his heart squeezes in his chest, then thuds like it lost its footing and is trying to find steady ground again. 

Arthur takes a steadying breath, trying to calm his heart and thoughts, and reaches out.

The ring on Eames’ finger is warm when Arthur touches it.

“Do you have to stay the night?” Arthur asks, his eyes glued to the ring.

“I don’t, since I have you to take me home and take care of me,” Eames replies, tone just this side of mischievous.

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you,” Arthur shoots back.

“When it comes to you, Arthur? Never.” 

Eames’ voice is too earnest and Arthur doesn’t miss the way he looks anywhere but at him. He stands up and runs his fingers gently over Eames’ scraped knuckles and can hear the change in Eames’ breathing. 

He leans down, hand braced on the bed, lips by Eames’ ear, their cheeks almost touching, and whispers, “I’m a sure thing, Mr. Eames, don’t you know.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


End file.
